Not Alone
by Jessica Roberts
Summary: A little Witchblade holiday story. Have a happy holiday!


Title: Not Alone  
Rating: G  
Legal: I don't own 'em. I wish I did.  
Spoilers: Well, nothing really. This is just a bit of fluff.  
  
This is a holiday present for Witchblade fanfic readers. It wasn't beta-read, so all mistakes are my fault.

Have a happy holiday!

*****

Sara stood outside the brushed steel door, tapping her booted foot on the floor. She could hear the rustling of paper inside, along with Irons' muted voice.

"Right here," Sara heard through the door. "No. Just right -- Thank you." There was a crash and then a long moment of silence. "Sit. Down."

Sara was just about to give up and leave when the doors finally opened. Inside the office, Kenneth Irons, creepy billionaire, sat behind his desk, a Santa hat on his head and a huge grin on his face. Ian Nottingham, Irons' trained assassin and general flunky, was sitting in a chair in the corner, a green and red elf hat perched above a petulant expression.

Sara hesitantly moved into the room, slipping her hand inside her jacket to rest on her gun in its holster. Irons smiling was more than enough to make her nervous, but add goofy hats to the mix and she was just about ready to run away screaming. Sara stopped about ten feet from Irons' desk. She wasn't willing to get any closer to the grinning nutcase.

"You said you had something for me, Mr. Irons," she said in a tone of voice that she hope showed that she wasn't here to play around.

"I do," Irons said, his smile, if possible, getting wider. "Have you been a good girl, Sara?"

"I'm about not to be," she growled.

There was a snicker from the corner, but when Sara glanced over, Nottingham's face was its usual blank mask. Looking back to Irons, the older man now had a small white box on the desk with a huge, inexpertly-tied red bow holding it closed. She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

"Happy holidays, Sara," he said simply.

"You called me down here at 8:30 on Christmas Eve when I could be at a party with my friends to give me some present I don't even want?" Sara asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Uh ... yes," Irons said after a moment, his smile slipping slightly. "I would be honored it you would accept my gift as a token of my great esteem for you and," he nodded to the bracelet on her wrist, "The Witchblade." Sara shook her head. "Please, Sara, can you once not distrust my motives and simply take this for what it is - a gift?"

"Fine," Sara said and stepped toward the desk. 

Snatching up the box, Sara tore the bow off, enjoying seeing Irons flinch as she did so. She yanked off the top of the box and, nestled in cotton were a pair of earrings. Sara was no expert on jewelry, but they appeared to be a very expensive set of rubies, surrounded by diamonds. They were impressive, but Sara wasn't really into jewelry, with the notable exception of the Witchblade.

"Thanks," Sara said and stuffed the box in her pocket. "I didn't get anything for you, so I'm out of here."

*****

Sara sat on her couch, looking at the scraggly Christmas tree she'd managed to find on the way home. It was small, but that didn't really matter, since she only had a few ornaments anyway. But, festooned with little white lights and the addition of a few pinecones she'd pilfered from the park, it looked fairly festive.

She'd lied when she had told Irons she could be at a party with her friends. Actually, all of her friends, even Jake, the transplanted Californian, were with their families tonight. She had planned to tough it out, hang out by herself until she could go over Joe Siri's house tomorrow for Christmas dinner. Irons' holiday spirit had thrown her, though. Even he had someone to be with on Christmas Eve; Nottingham might be a psycho, but it had to be better than sitting alone.

Who did she have? No one. She had a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, a mug of eggnog, and a really expensive pair of earrings from a man she despised. Yippee.

She finished her eggnog and put the cup down on the end table. Maybe she should just go to bed early. It used to be that she would do that to make Santa come faster. Now she just wanted the day to go away. She stood up and heard a tap at the glass of her window.

Peering through the glass she saw only a dark figure perched on the fire escape outside. She could guess who it was though.

"Why's your keeper got you spying on me now?" Sara asked after she unlocked and opened the window. "Or are you Goth Santa?"

Without asking permission, Nottingham climbed in past her and walked over to the Christmas tree. It was so small that his broad shoulders and chest completely obscured it as he stood in front of it.

"Well?" Sara demanded and slammed the window shut.

He turned to face her.

"Mr. Irons didn't send me," the assassin said softly, his eyes on the floor. "I told him you wouldn't care much for jewels." He inclined his head toward the small box on the couch. "Nor a watch nor a car nor any of the other hundreds of expensive things he thought to buy your love with. He will never give you what you want, Sara."

"How do you know what I want?" Sara asked, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the cold glass of the window. "How could you possibly know?"

"Because we want the same things," he said. "A family, a life, to control rather than be controlled." He looked up and met Sara's eyes. "We don't want to be alone."

Sara's first instinct was to deny any possible connection she might have to Irons' flunky. Unfortunately, though, what he said was true. That was what she wanted. Nothing so big as peace on earth, goodwill toward men -- just to not be alone. She hadn't considered before that Nottingham might be just as much alone as her, despite his contant attendance on Irons.

She didn't say anything though, just walked over and picked up her mug. Taking it to the kitchen, she refilled it and poured another mug. She went to the dark-clad man and handed him the new mug, which he took carefully. She sat down on the couch and curled her legs up under her.

After a long moment, Nottingham moved to sit on the far end of the couch. He took a sip of the eggnog and a flicker of a smile marred his usual stoic expression.

They sat and drank, not together, maybe, but not alone, either.

*****

The End

--Jessica


End file.
